“Do you ever wonder what makes a wizard a wizard?” asks Ambrosia, slowly making her way between a stack of broken drawers and cabinets on one side and what looks like a large pile of moth and mould riddled cloaks on the other. “Why we are different?”

Merriman is in front of her, and in front of him M’A-bja, who is walking on all fours, head held high, almost sauntering along.

“You mean cursed,” replies Merriman, glancing back over his shoulder.

M’A-bja has lead them to the storerooms located on the ground floor of the main tower behind the kitchens. One would expect somewhere located and named thus to be where the tower’s food is kept but that is actually known as ‘the Pantry’ which for some historical quirk of fate is located in a separate outbuilding. No, the ‘store rooms’ should more accurately be described as the ‘dumping rooms’ since these large dusty, dirty, dim and damp cavernous windowless chambers are, quite literally, where anything that is not being used and wishes to be simply forgotten about is ‘stored’.

“I suppose,” Ambrosia says, considering Merriman’s comment, “though it’s not the same in different cultures, you know? The Xan-nites believe quite the opposite, that those who are born wizards have been blessed by Urucha. “

“Urucha?”

“The spider goddess, whom they worship. Anyone blessed by Urucha is held in high regard - they treat wizards differently in Xana. You know they believe that a Wizard is not only blessed by, but is x’zak aynfin Uruchuhai - a child unborn of Urucha, or more directly a spider egg of Urucha, and that we can perform magic because we have our own thread that is exclusively our own, whilst others are simply bound. I’ll let you guess the translation of ke’m-bar.”

Merriman thinks for a moment, thinking carefully at what has come before and the subtle emphasis that Ambrosia placed on the word bound. “Is it flies?” he asks, though he knows already the answer.

“How d’you know that? Did you guess that or did you know it already?”

Merriments shrugs “Just a guess, I guess. So how do you know all about the Xan?”

“You forget who I am Merriman Hoodinius: Ambrosia Clearwater from the noble House of Clearwater,” Ambrosia says haughtily, though Merriman can tell she is joking, “privileged, wealthy and above all else, educated…I had a tutor, who taught me lots of things.”

“Oh?”

“She was Xan-nite."

“Really? I didn’t know that,”

“I have many secrets,”

“Hmm, I don’t believe that.” Merriman says, a smile creeping across his face. “But I do have a question. Is it true, what they say about Xan-nites’ skin?”

“What, that you can see through it? Yes, it’s a little bit weird. It has a kind of blue pallor to it and its sort of transparent but not at the same time. As I said it’s a little bit weird. Like if you focus you can see through it, but if you...hmmm it’s difficult to describe...but S’Ambr was lovely, she taught me all about her culture and well, everything I suppose. They don’t have ears, did you know that? Well they do, they have cavities, and hear things, but they don’t have the fleshy bits that we have.”

“I don’t understand, how was she allowed to stay? I mean, I know we trade with Xan but I thought they weren’t allowed to leave the city bounds of Menacil.”

“You know, I never thought about that, but you’re right...” Ambrosia seems somewhat mystified by Merriman’s question, her face twisting in consternation as they proceed through the ‘store’.

M’A-bja pulls up short, causing Merriman to halt abruptly, which in turn causes Ambrosia to walk into Merriman and start giggling.

“Sorry.”

Merriman turns and smiles, before turning back to M’A-bja who seems to be sniffing the air and looking carefully about in the gloom. Merriman expands his light orb and casts it up into the air, illuminating a large circular space in the middle of centuries of detritus and clutter.

With Merriman carefully watching, and Ambrosia peering over Merriman’s shoulder, M’A-bja circles the space, hier paws leaving tracks in the dusty floor. Round and round, M’A-bja continues to circle, before eventually settling on a spot and, facing Merriman and Ambrosia, pawing the floor, looking expectantly again at Merriman.

“What’s going on?” asks Ambrosia, the situation clearly becoming too much for her. Although she trusts Merriman’s assurance that M’A-bja is ‘friendly’, the presence of the Diabolical is unsettling to say the least, and the seeming randomness of the unannounced encounter enough to generate a certain amount of anxiety, particularly since they are creeping around Arkanthor at some unseemly hour, with little known intent.

“Honestly, I don’t know” replies Merriman, “though it’s clear we need to look at that spot,” he says, wandering over and bending down, sweeping the floor with his hands, the dust parting to reveal a smooth domed feature in the stonework of the floor. As Merriman sweeps away more dust, the smooth curvature of the dome transpires to be the forehead of a carved skull, it’s vacant eyes, dark, dust filled cavities, staring blankly up into space.

The dull glow of M’A-bja’s orange eyes combined with the purple light of Merriman’s light orb produces an ethereal light that throws the skull into sinister relief.

Ambrosia wanders closer and hunkers down next to Merriman and M’A-bja - all three, their heads close together, peering at the carving.

“What’s that in its nose?” Ambrosia asks pointing, noticing something unusual.

Merriman peers closer. “I think it’s for this,” he says, drawing out the key that he took from M’A-bja earlier. He bends closer. “Close your eyes everyone,” he says before blowing as hard as he can into the skull’s nose, dust and debris flying into the air. M’A-bja sneezes twice in quick succession, hier three pronged paws going up to hier nose, snot flying out from between the digits.

“Urrgh! Come on M’A-bja,” Merriman says laughing.

M”Abja just grins.

Ambrosia, however is elsewhere, carefully analysing the situation. “And where did that come from?” she asks with suspicious concern, nodding at the key that Merriman holds in his hand

“M’A-bja gave it to me.”

“Are you sure this is wise? It just seems…”

“What?”

“D’you feel like you’re in control of this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know…it’s just…” she looks pointedly at M’A-bja, who turns hier orange gaze to her, blinks and then stares back at the skull. “I don’t know, it seems like this whole situation is a decision…as if fate is knocking on the door and we have to decide whether or not to open it.”

Merriman looks at Ambrosia for a moment, then sits down on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms about his knees, key in hand. He takes a deep breath and breathes out. He nods slowly, considering Ambrosia’s words. “Yes,” he says, almost cryptically, his gaze seemingly disappearing into a dimension of distance that is not of the world.

“Merriman?”

“I think you are right,” Merriman says. “Look…at the aether.”

Ambrosia’s eyes narrow, “The aether? What about the aether?”

“Look!” says Merriman.

Ambrosia is not as skilled as Merriman at accessing the aetheric flow, indeed Merriman seems to a have a preternatural ability at accessing it, and is more akin in this aspect of wizardry to his teachers. Ambrosia sits herself carefully on the ground, making sure that her back is straight, calms her breathing and tries to relax, feeling the sinking feeling that she has been taught to cultivate and then attempts to let her thoughts drift away, feel the sensation of fluctuation slide across her eyeballs, as the space around her begins to glisten somewhat and waver. From Merriman’s perspective he is surrounded by flowing fibres, but although Ambrosia is accessing the same perceptual dimension, it is not as clear and distinct as it is for Merriman, but gazing about, she gasps at the sight before her, having enough power to at least see what Merriman in talking about.

All about her aetheric fibres twist and coil, but this is not how they usually look. Usually they flow past the viewer, meandering smoothly, disturbed only by the words of power and the grasp of a wizards fingers, but here, it is as if they knot and bind, coursing about but not touching the place in which the three of them sit. Indeed, it is as if the place that they occupy is devoid of any aether at all or perhaps is being deliberately avoided by the aether, which reels and coils around in an attempt to remain untouched by this place - a knot in the grain of a tree.

“Merriman? What’s going on?”